“I was sent to the SS, against my personal wishes, by the OKW, because it was believed that an Army officer, the son of an Army officer, the grandson of an Army officer, might be able to instill in the SS some understanding of the code of honor,” von Deitzberg said. “This instance particularly—and certainly others—show how I have failed.”
My God, von Deitzberg said that with a straight face, Peter thought in amazement, and Perón seems to be swallowing it whole.
Maybe because he wants to believe it?
“Translate, if you will, Mayor,” Perón said. “I found it difficult to believe that Germany would order the murder of el Coronel Frade. But the facts—”
“No one in the Wehrmacht would do such a thing,” von Deitzberg said. “Grüner disgraced the uniform he should not have been wearing in the first place. Questions of honor aside, it was a stupid thing to do. I’m sure it enraged the Argentine officer corps….”
“Yes, it did,” Perón said.
“And it enraged the German officer corps,” von Deitzberg continued. “And if I have to say this, Juan Domingo, it shamed and enraged me.”
Perón made a wave of dismissal. “It never entered my mind that you, or any German officer I know, had anything to do with it,” he said, and then gestured for Peter to make the translation.
“So far as the German officer corps is concerned, Juan Domingo,” von Deitzberg replied, “the late Oberst Frade was a friend. He earned the respect—and the friendship—of all who knew him when he was at the Kriegsschule. And his nephew died an honorable officer’s death while serving with us in our mutual fight against the godless Communists at Stalingrad.”
The poor, stupid bastard, Peter thought unkindly, got himself killed playing soldier. He was supposed to be an observer, a noncombatant, and an observer is not supposed to fly around in a Storch directing artillery fire.
Perón did not reply.
“The assignment of Major von Wachtstein, the distinguished scion of a noble family of German soldiers, to accompany the remains of Captain Duarte to his Fatherland was not accidental, but rather a gesture of the respect in which the officer corps held the late Coronel Frade,” von Deitzberg said, and gestured for Peter to make the translation.
“And that was appreciated by the family,” Perón said. “And by myself.”
“May I speak indelicately, between soldiers?” von Deitzberg said, then went on without waiting for Peter to translate. “The question of what to do with the so-called Colonel Grüner has been solved for us—”
“I don’t understand,” Perón interrupted without any translation from Peter.
Obviously, Peter thought, Perón’s German is better than he’s willing to admit.
“There is a certain justice in what el Coronel Frade’s son did at the beach at Samborombón Bay,” von Deitzberg said. “An eye for an eye, so to speak.”
“What was going on at the beach?” Perón asked.
“Admiral Canaris wants the officers from the Graf Spee to escape, as he himself escaped from internment here in the First World War. To that end, Grüner and Goltz were trying to bring ashore a radio transmitter.”
“Then that was an intolerable violation of Argentine sovereignty,” Perón said.
“With all respect, Juan Domingo, if I were in their shoes, I would try to return to active service, and I think you would too.”
“Nevertheless, that is unacceptable behavior.”
“The question, I respectfully suggest, Juan Domingo, is moot. They did not get the radios ashore.”
“You understand, Manfred, that now that you have told me this, I will have to take the appropriate action to ensure that the Graf Spee officers remain interned.”
“I knew that when I told you,” von Deitzberg said. “The more important question, however, is ‘how can we close the door on this unfortunate incident?’”
“I don’t think I know what you mean,” Perón said.
“Can you express to the Argentine officer corps the profound apologies of the German officer corps for the actions—however unauthorized—of the so-called Colonel Grüner? Will you accept my word of honor as an officer that we have taken steps that will prevent anything like this from ever happening again?”
Perón neither looked at Peter for a translation nor immediately replied. Finally, he said: “The murder of the man who was poised to become President of Argentina cannot be—and should not be—forgotten easily.”
“I am well aware of that, Juan Domingo,” von Deitzberg said sadly.
“I will have a word with my friends,” Perón said. “More important, with my godson. In very many ways, he is like his father, and his father was capable of staying very angry for a very long time.”
“In his place, I would feel the same way,” von Deitzberg said. “But he has had his revenge, has he not?”
Perón took a long moment to reply.
“I will have to think about this, Manfred,” he said. “Would you be willing to offer the apology of the German officer corps to him personally? That might be necessary.”
“Privately, you mean?”
“Yes, of course privately.”
Von Deitzberg appeared to be thinking that over very carefully. “If you think that would be necessary, Juan Domingo, of course I would.”
Perón grunted.
“I think enough has been said for now,” he said. “Let me think about this.”
“Of course.”
“Personally, Manfred, I very much appreciate your coming to me like this.”
“I very much appreciate your receiving me,” von Deitzberg said.
“You’ll be at the Alvear Plaza?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll telephone you there,” Perón said, “and let you know….”
“Thank you, Juan Domingo.”
“In the old days,” Perón said, “that is to say, before my friend was murdered, I would have asked you to stay here, in this house. My friends, so to speak, were his friends. And his friends, my friends. But this house is now the property of Mayor Frade, and that’s quite out of the question.”
“I completely understand, Juan Domingo.”
“I’ll call you at the Alvear,” Perón repeated, then looked at Peter. “I understand, my young friend, that you have been seen at the Alvear yourself, in the roof garden, with a lovely young woman.”
The discussion of an apology is now obviously over.
“I plead guilty, mi Coronel.”
“You are aware, are you, that the young woman’s sister was the next thing to engaged to the late Capitán Duarte?”
“Yes, Sir, I am.”
“You could do a lot worse than Alicia Carzino-Cormano,” Perón said. “And this war won’t last forever.”
“Mi Coronel,” Peter said. “My relationship with Señorita Carzino-Cormano is not anywhere—”
“The person who saw the way she looked at you in the roof garden is in this room, Mayor von Wachtstein,” Perón said, smiling warmly. “But I appreciate your discretion.”
“We will not take any more of your time, Juan Domingo,” von Deitzberg said.
Perón looked at his wristwatch.
“And I do have a dinner appointment,” Perón said, and put out his hand.
“So tell me about your señorita, von Wachtstein,” von Deitzberg said when they were en route to the Alvear Plaza.
“Her mother and Oberst Frade had a relationship,” Peter replied. “They have adjacent estancias—enormous estancias, Herr General, each more than eighty thousand hectares—”
“Eighty thousand hectares?” von Deitzberg interrupted incredulously.
“Yes, Sir. They’re unbelievable.”
“And you met this young woman in connection with the funeral of Hauptman
n Duarte?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Perón was right. You could do a lot worse than a young woman whose family owns eighty thousand hectares. And the war won’t last forever.”
“Herr General, there is nothing serious between us,” Peter said.
“A connection like that could be very valuable to the Reich,” von Deitzberg said, as if thinking aloud. “This is not the time to get into that subject, but let me say that, for a number of reasons, I wish you every romantic success with the young lady with the eighty thousand hectares.”
“Thank you, Sir, but I really don’t think—”
“So tell me, von Wachtstein, what do you think is Oberst Perón’s little secret? What dark side of his character do you think there is?”
“Herr General, I have no idea.”
“What’s the first thing that came to your mind when I mentioned his interesting dossier?”
“The Herr General is embarrassing me.”
“I don’t mean to,” von Deitzberg said. “What did you think?”
“I thought you were suggesting that he might be homosexual, Herr General.”
“And do you think that’s what his dark side is?”
“I find it hard to accept, Herr General. He is such a…”
“Masculine man?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Röhm* was a masculine man,” von Deitzberg said, obviously enjoying himself. “A picture of the rough, tough-as-steel warrior. And he spent his last night on this earth, indeed, his last moments, in bed with a delicate young man. I’ve seen those photographs, too.”
“I still don’t see Perón as a homosexual, Herr General,” Peter said.
“Then guess again.”
“Herr General, I have no idea.”
“He likes young women, von Wachtstein.”
“Sir?”
“Very young women. At the first blush of womanhood, so to speak. Nothing, I gather, over fifteen.”
Peter looked at him in disbelief.
“There were several incidents while he was in Italy and Germany. He had diplomatic immunity, of course, and they were all kept quiet. But photographs are available, if they should ever be needed.”
“I’m shocked,” Peter confessed. “Does he know you know?”
“He knows he was arrested; he’s not stupid. He knows there is a record somewhere. I don’t think he knows I know. And I certainly don’t intend to play that card unless it’s necessary.”
He smiled at Peter. “As I say, von Wachtstein, you should make an effort to cultivate Oberst Perón.”
Peter nodded.
“Grüner mentioned nothing of this to you?” von Deitzberg asked.
“No, Sir. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“What about Operation Phoenix?” von Deitzberg asked.
“Standartenführer Goltz told me something about that, Herr General, but not Oberst Grüner.”
“And what did Goltz tell you?” von Deitzberg asked.
Peter did not reply. Instead he pointed at Günther Loche in the front seat.
“Quite right, quite right,” von Deitzberg said. “We can get into that later.”
“Jawohl, Herr General.”
On 6 May 1943, in three separate thrusts, American infantry and armored divisions in Tunisia broke through the German defensive line and attacked toward Bizerta, Ferryville, and Protville.
Elsewhere in Tunisia, following a massive artillery and air bombardment, the British destroyed what was left of the German 15th Panzer Division and broke through the German defensive positions to strike toward Tunis.
[TWO]
The Embassy of the German Reich
Avenue Córdoba
Buenos Aires
0915 6 May 1943
Fräulein Ingebord Hässell pushed open the door to the private office of Manfred Alois Graf von Lutzenberger, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina, and very loudly and importantly barked: “Your Excellency! Baron Gradny-Sawz is here with Deputy Foreign Minister von Löwzer and General Major von Deitzberg!”
You really should have been a man, Inge. You would have been a splendid Stabsfeldwebel. I can just see you on a parade ground, screaming orders at conscripts.
“Ask the gentlemen to come in please, Inge,” von Lutzenberger said, and got up from behind his desk.
Deputy Foreign Minister Georg Friedrich von Löwzer came into the office first and rendered the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler!” he barked.
Was that preposterous gesture rendered in deference to Himmler’s adjutant? Or has von Löwzer become yet another zealous convert to the New Order?
Von Löwzer was followed into the office by von Deitzberg, then Gradny-Sawz, Standartenführer Erich Raschner, and finally, von Wachtstein. They all wore civilian clothing.
“Heil Hitler,” von Lutzenberger replied. “How are you, Friedrich?” Without waiting for a reply, he walked to von Deitzberg and offered his hand.
“Welcome to Argentina, Herr Generalmajor,” he said. “I presume Gradny-Sawz and von Wachtstein have been taking good care of you?”
“Splendid, thank you. Last night von Wachtstein fed me the best steak I have ever had.”
“There are some compensations attached to being in this barbarous outpost,” von Lutzenberger said. “The food, the women, and the pastry, not necessarily in that order.”
Gradny-Sawz chuckled; von Wachtstein smiled. Von Deitzberg did neither.
Is that an indication I was supposed to cringe at your appearance, von Deitzberg?
“Standartenführer Raschner is my deputy,” von Deitzberg said, and von Lutzenberger offered his hand—but said nothing—to Raschner.
“You understand, Herr Generalmajor, why I was unable to meet you at the airport, or entertain you myself last night?
“Gradny-Sawz said something about a diplomatic reception?”
“At the Swedish Embassy,” von Lutzenberger said. “My absence would have been conspicuous.”
“Why is that?” von Deitzberg asked.
“It was the first reception—the first by a neutral power—since the unfortunate demise of Oberst Frade, the coup d’état, and the incident at Samborombón Bay. The entire diplomatic corps was waiting—rather shamelessly—to see the interaction between myself and the officials of General Rawson’s—El Presidente Rawson’s—new government.”
Von Löwzer chuckled. “And that was?” he asked.
“Following a pro forma handshake between el Presidente and myself, I became invisible to the Argentines.”
“Which you think signifies…?” Von Löwzer pursued.
“The Argentines obviously wished to make it clear to me, and everyone in the diplomatic community, that they—el Presidente Rawson in particular; he and Frade were good friends—don’t consider the deaths of Oberst Grüner and Standartenführer Goltz as payment in full for the assassination of Oberst Frade.”
“‘Everyone’?” von Löwzer asked. “Are you suggesting that everyone in the diplomatic community is conversant with the details of both incidents?”
Von Lutzenberger nodded. “No one believes that Oberst Frade was murdered in the course of a robbery, and everyone knows what happed to Grüner and Goltz.”
“What does ‘everyone’ think happened to Grüner and Goltz at Samborombón Bay?” Von Deitzberg asked.
“That when they attempted to land equipment—shortwave radios, and other items, intended to facilitate the repatriation of the Graf Spee officers—from the Océano Pacífico, Frade’s son was waiting for them, and revenged the murder of his father.”
“How did our intention to repatriate the Graf Spee officers become known?” von Deitzberg asked, surprised.
“I told, in t
he strictest confidence, my friend the Spanish ambassador—”
“You did what?” von Deitzberg interrupted, incredulously.
“—in absolute confidence that within hours Oberst Martín of the Bureau of Internal Security would hear what we were doing at Samborombón Bay,” von Lutzenberger finished, somewhat coldly.
“And who gave you the authority to do this?” von Deitzberg demanded.
Von Lutzenberger waved his hand at Gradny-Sawz, von Wachtstein, and Raschner. “If you gentlemen will excuse us,” he ordered. “Herr Minister von Löwzer and the Generalmajor and I would like a word in private.”
Gradny-Sawz—whose face showed his surprise and concern—and von Wachtstein and Raschner left the office.
Von Lutzenberger looked at von Deitzberg.
“You were about to tell me who gave you the authority to reveal—” von Deitzberg said.
“Pardon me, Herr Generalmajor,” von Lutzenberger said, holding up his hand to interrupt him.
Von Deitzberg glowered at him.
“Perhaps I can save us all some time,” von Lutzenberger said. He turned to von Löwzer. “Friedrich, are you here to tell me that I am being recalled to Berlin for consultation? Or, perhaps, that you are replacing me ‘temporarily’ until this matter is resolved?”
“No,” von Löwzer said, obviously surprised at the question. “Where did you get an idea like that?”
“Perhaps you are bearing orders of that nature for me, Herr Generalmajor?” von Lutzenberger asked.
“No,” von Deitzberg said. “I don’t quite understand the question.”
“The question is one of authority, Herr Generalmajor,” von Lutzenberger said. “May I presume, then, Friedrich, in the absence of orders to the contrary, that I remain the Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Führer of the German Reich to the Republic of Argentina?”
“Of course,” von Löwzer said. “There never has been any question of that.”
“Then perhaps you would be good enough, Friedrich, to tell the Herr Generalmajor that as the ambassador here, I exercise, in the name of the Führer, German authority in all things.”
Secret Honor Page 30
